


Shine

by Severina



Category: Oz (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby has a pool.  :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillingstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/gifts).



> Set sometime after Gary's death. Zabitz never talked, Chris never killed, and now Chris and Toby are on parole. Yes, let's go with that, shall we?  
> Written for trillingstar for Xmas 2009. She asked for "naked Toby swimming" with a bonus of "Chris ogling".

Chris keeps his head down, watches his shadow advance before him on the stone walkway. The radio in his battered pickup had said the temperature could swell to a hundred and ten by mid-afternoon, but he thinks it might be there already. He feels each and every scorching degree on his bowed neck on the short walk from the driveway.

The house is blessedly cool and dark. He lets his gym bag fall from his fingers, leans back against the door, scrubs his hands over his face and closes his eyes. Silence but for the ticking of the grandfather clock, some relic from a Beecher great-great-something-or-other that's been passed down to Toby. He keeps it even though there's no room for it in the house, a "starter home" by Beecher standards, a goddamn palace to Chris.

He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, watches orange flowers bloom against his eyelids. Takes a deep breath before pushing away from the door and bending to unlace his boots. He tugs off his socks and tucks them into the tops of the boots, knows that when Toby gets home he'll cluck his tongue and remove them using only the tips of his fingers, like he's handling nuclear waste, and he'll get another lecture about setting a bad example for the children. There's a lot of worse examples he could be setting, and Toby knows it, and besides, the way Harry copies him with his own socks and shoes and frustrates the hell out of Toby is kinda amusing.

He crosses the living room on the way to the bedroom, curling his toes into the thick Berber carpet with a sigh of relief. He detours to the overstuffed leather sofa to snag one of Holly's Barbies from the footstool, frowns at the half-empty teacup sitting primly on its saucer on the end table. Toby's mother's been here, no doubt perching on the very edge of the sofa as if it might swallow her whole, lips pursed sourly as she takes in the motorcycle magazines scattered on the low coffee table, the bright abstracts nailed to the walls. She's never understood the need for vivid colour and furniture you can sink into (and that doesn't stain, because they do have to be practical, after all) after dull grey walls and hard plastic chairs. She's also never understood that Chris is here to stay.

Chris tucks the Barbie under his arm and snatches up the china, ducks into Holly's room to deposit the doll before bending to collect three small dinky cars lined up against the baseboard in the hallway. Harry's been playing garage again, the hallway being the filling station in the kid's fertile imagination, and damned if that doesn't frustrate Toby too, after he spent a fucking fortune on that Hot Wheels Garage playset. Chris fingers the toy cars in his palm, grins as he remembers Holly declaring solemnly at breakfast one morning that she wanted to be a nun ("Uh, honey, we're not Catholic," Toby had said, bemused) and Harry piping up immediately that he wanted to be a mechanic ("just like Chris!"), and the way Toby's eyes had flicked to his, surprised, but warm and proud.

He pops into Harry's room to toss the cars into the kid's toy trunk. He pauses outside the bedroom only long enough to set the teacup down on the hall table, edges around the grandfather clock and finally flops down on the bed.

The sun paints a stripe on the duvet, and Chris smoothes his hand over it unthinkingly, resisting the urge to strip off all his clothes and hide out under the covers until Toby gets home. Instead, he watches the play of light on his fingers. He scowls when the bright rays only serve to highlight the dark oils creased into his skin, and when he scrubs a palm over his chin he grimaces again at the rough texture of his jaw. He had dashed out of the house that morning, didn't have time for a shave courtesy of Toby and his talented tongue. Was almost late for work, too, making it in by the skin of his teeth, Kendrick looking down his nose at him and then pointedly at the clock. He made it, though, punched it at eight fifty nine. Not that it made a difference in the end.

He levers himself up from the bed and heads to the bathroom in the hall, spends ten minutes scouring his hands before he's satisfied, rubbed red and raw but satisfied, and another ten lathering up and easing the razor along his jaw. He studies his face critically in the mirror before sliding out of his T-shirt and tossing it into the laundry hamper, scoops the teacup from the hall table and pads silently into the kitchen.

He is reaching for the hot water tap, meaning to rinse away all lingering remnants of Victoria Beecher along with the dregs of her Earl Grey, when motion from outside the sliding glass doors catches his eye. He abandons the cup and crosses to the doors instead, squints into the bright sunlight.

Toby is in the pool.

The day takes a decided upswing.

* * * * *

Chris eases the patio door shut behind him. The flagstone patio is warm on his feet, the summer breeze more like the blast of a blow dryer than a refreshing gust of air. He's sweating before he reaches the edge of the deck, and if Chris is honest it has less to do with the stifling heat and more to do with Toby's swimming trunks draped neatly over the back of a deck chair, with Toby knifing through the cold clear water naked as the day he was born. He leans on the railing and enjoys the view from his elevated perch, lets his eyes crawl greedily over Toby's skin.

When Toby emerges from the pool a few minutes later, shakes his head like a wet dog and sends water droplets scattering across the concrete, Chris's cock is pressing insistently against the zipper of his jeans. He licks his lips when Toby picks up a towel and begins to dry himself off, and in his mind he's already there, snatching the towel from Toby's hands and replacing it with his tongue.

He's only taken two steps from the deck before Toby's head whips up, eyes wary, body immediately tensing. He visibly relaxes when his gaze lights on Chris, but one hand still strays to the fluffy white towel, holds it awkwardly against his groin. He smiles, though, that warm gentle upturning of lips that seems to be made for Chris and Chris alone, and Chris feels the force of it in his chest, in the tightness of his stomach and in the throbbing of his dick.

"Hey," Toby says. "What are you doing home?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"Court went into recess until tomorrow, and I took one look at the paperwork on my desk and said fuck it," Toby says. He wraps the towel around his waist, tucks it in place. "You?"

Chris cocks his head, takes a couple of steps forward and rests a hand against the back of the deck chair. "You know, Tobe, I _have_ seen you naked."

Toby lifts a shoulder, eyes edging past him to the flagstone path that curls along the side lawn. Some things never change, and Chris's love of exhibitionism and Toby's need for privacy are two of them. Despite the fact that it's barely noon on a Tuesday, despite the six foot cedar fence and the matching barred gate, Toby will take no chances. Sometimes Chris wonders how they ever manage to fuck at all.

"That's not answering the question," Toby says.

"Ahh," Chris says. The heat beats down on him, a palpable thing, and he scratches absently at the back of his neck. "They decided to let me go early."

Toby studies him for a beat. "You got fired," he says flatly.

"I prefer to think of it as 'taking a sabbatical.'"

"Chris," Toby sniffs out. He runs a hand through his damp hair. Chris wants to bat the hand away, fist his own hand in those curls, bend Toby over the deck chair and pound away at him until the only thing Toby can think of is the hard fullness of Chris's dick in his ass, the warm blanket of Chris's body covering him, owning him, here with the sun beating down on their backs.

He curls his hand around the deck chair instead, feels the webbing dig painfully into the pads of his fingers. "I'll find something else."

"You have to keep a job, Chris," Toby says patiently. "It's one of the conditions of your parole."

"You think I don't know that?" Chris snaps. His P.O loves eyeing him smugly every time he fucks up, fat gut spilling over his belt when he leans forward over his desk to check something off on Chris's file. Yeah, his appointment on Friday is going to be a real treat.

"You'll find something," Toby says. "You will. You're a good mechanic--"

Chris snorts. "You been listening to Harry too much," he says. "I'm a glorified gas jockey."

"You're a mechanic," Toby insists. "You just don't have the paperwork. If you went back to school, got yourself into an apprenticeship program--"

"Can you picture me sitting in a classroom, listening to some useless fuck drone on about how to rebuild a carburetor? C'mon, Tobe. Get your head out of the clouds. I'm a fucking con man."

"Not now," Toby says. He presses a hand lightly to Chris's arm. "Not anymore."

Chris glances down at Toby's hand, follows the line of Toby's arm to his firm chest, light dusting of hair, skin still pale despite endless hours in the backyard due to Toby's judicious use of sunblock. Chris himself is golden, and he rests a palm on Toby's chest just to see the contrast, rubs a finger experimentally over Toby's nipple and grins when it immediately hardens under his touch.

He's tired of trying to navigate through a life he never expected to have, tired of grease under his nails, tired of rebuilding engines for five bucks an hour while an endless stream of incompetent bosses sit on their collective asses and sneer. He wants something now, and the thing he wants is the thing he always wants. Toby.

He takes a small step forward, eases his hand under Toby's towel and finds his cock.

"Chris," Toby warns. The hand on Chris's arm flexes, grips Chris's bicep painfully.

"Relax," Chris murmurs. His breath ghosts across Toby's skin, and he feels the responding shiver everywhere their bodies touch. "There's two things I'm good at. Running a con, and fucking you until you scream. Guess which one I wanna do right now?"

"Don't," Toby says, but his voice is weak, and his hips are speaking their own language, already thrusting into the tight circle of Chris's fist.

"You know how hot that makes me, hearing you scream my name? All those times in the pod when you had to bite the pillow to keep it all inside. That's all over now. You can be as loud as you want."

He watches Toby's eyes skitter across the yard the same way thoughts are skittering across his brain, watches Toby's tongue poke out from between his teeth and resists the urge to suck it inside his mouth, to fuck Toby's mouth with his tongue the way he wants to fuck Toby's ass.

Chris knows he's got him when the hand crushing his bicep relaxes.

"Yeah," Chris breathes. He uses his other hand to tug the towel away, tosses it carelessly on the ground. "You gonna scream for me, Toby?"

Toby makes a sound low in his throat, and when his breath hitches and he leans his forehead on Chris's shoulder, Chris feels something loosen in his chest. He knows it's not going to happen, no matter how much he wants to hear Toby call his name. He knows he's lucky to have gotten this far past Toby's defences, in broad daylight, when the postman or a courier or goddamn Mother Beecher could come strolling up that flagstone walkway at any moment.

The thought brings another, and he presses a hand against Toby's chin, forces his head back.

"Kids?" Chris says.

Toby blinks. "What?"

""Where. Are. The. Kids?" Chris repeats slowly, each word punctuated by a long, slow swipe of his hand along Toby's shaft.

"Uh… Mother's…" Toby gets out, and when he swallows convulsively Chris can't resist leaning down to lick a wide swathe across his neck, can't resist sucking on his adam's apple to the rhythm of Toby's cock pulsing in his hand.

"Overnight," Toby gasps out, and Chris's own dick throbs in response, so hard it's aching. He lifts his head, presses his forehead to Toby's and inclines their heads down, speeds up his ministrations and watches as Toby's cock slides through his fist, his goal now to get Toby off hot and hard, to move on to the main event, to finally get Toby ass up in that deck chair.

He pump his fist once, twice, and then Toby's come is spilling hot over his hand, Toby's body slumping against his, Toby's breath puffing warmly over his skin, not screaming his name but whispering it reverentially, something sacred. He keeps his hand in place until the last quivers have left Toby's body, runs his other hand smoothly down Toby's chest and levers him upright. Only then does he raise his hand slowly to his mouth, dart out his tongue to lick at his fingers.

The way Toby licks his lips as he watches his mouth goes straight to his dick, and he grabs at one of Toby's hands and presses it against his jeans, thrusts once, his own hand drifting down again to Toby's softening cock. He closes his fist around it lazily, feels the resulting twitch in response.

Toby's fingers ease along the hard outline of his cock against his jeans, and Chris finds himself leaning forward into the touch, his eyes half-closed.

"You realize this doesn't mean our earlier conversation is over," Toby says against his ear.

Chris opens his eyes, leans back to find Toby watching him with amusement. Considering he expected Toby to be grabbing for the towel, had almost anticipated having to tackle him to the ground to abort a wild rush for the relative safety of the house, this is a good sign.

"I been thinking about that," Chris says.

"Oh yeah? When?" Toby's lips quirk. "When you were jerking me off?"

"I'm a multi-tasker," Chris says. He slides his hand smoothly over Toby's cock, sucks in a breath when Toby starts slowly, ever so slowly easing down his zipper. "There's a simple way out of this."

Toby licks his lips again, and Chris finds it hard to concentrate when he's watching that tongue. He drags his eyes back to Toby's, squares his shoulders.

"What's that?" Toby asks.

"You hire me. I'll be your pool boy."

"I already have a pool boy."

"Then I'll be your gardener," Chris says. "Or your housekeeper. Or your fucking nanny. You do realize I already run this place?"

Toby blinks, his hand stilling on Chris's zipper, then splutters out a laugh. "Oh my god," he says. "You're my wife."

Chris clenches his jaw, tightens his grip on Toby's cock just enough to cause Toby to hiss. "Yeah, just keep laughin'," he warns.

Toby hand curls around his bicep. He squeezes once, waits until Chris releases his hold on his dick before inclining his head. "You know," he says, "that's actually a good idea."

"I do have them from time to time."

"We'd have to clear it with your parole officer," Toby muses. "And mine."

"We can talk about that later," Chris says. And when Toby's fingers suddenly tighten their hold on the zipper tab, when Toby abruptly tugs his zipper the rest of the way down and reaches inside for his hard, leaking cock, Chris amends that thought. "Tomorrow," he says. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Toby lets go of Chris's cock in order to tug his jeans lower on his hips. "Why?" he says innocently. "You have plans for tonight?"

Chris grabs the nape of Toby's neck, finally twists his fingers in his hair and guides their lips together, swipes his tongue inside and kisses away that smirk until Toby is left panting and breathless. "Gonna make you scream," he promises.

"No," Toby says, eyes glinting, "I don't think so."

Chris sometimes forgets about Toby's strength, and he's over-toppled in a heartbeat, his legs caught in his loosened jeans, slung into the deck chair with a force that surprises him. He barely has time to blink before Toby is straddling him, before his arms are wrenched above his head and his breath stolen from his lungs.

"This time," Toby says, "you're going to scream for me."


End file.
